Seasonal Cheer (Or Something Like It)
by scrub456
Summary: Response to a Christmas prompt challenge on Tumblr. Each chapter is its own story, and I may experiment with different versions of Holmes and Watson. Stories of two epic best friends with at least a mention of Christmas, not always "fluffy." *rated T for sweary John*
1. It's Not a Christmas Jumper

Prompt: You should really take off that seasonal jumper and/or hat and/or pair of shoes.

* * *

It wasn't even a proper Christmas jumper. John would know, he had four - more than any adult male of a certain age should, but far fewer than most people, Sherlock included, assumed of him.

It was a young man's jumper, John had to admit. It buttoned up the front, cardigan style, though it had no pockets (and really, what's the point of a cardigan if it has no pockets), but only to a low v-neck. Impractical. And it had a hood. _A hood._

He'd only pulled it on after his shift because he hadn't intended on leaving the flat for the evening.

It was a gift from an ex. A much younger ex. An ex who had wanted to see John in skinny jeans. An ex who wasn't around much longer after that particular request was denied. Sherlock never even had a chance to intrude.

The jumper was burgundy (not bloody Christmas red as bloody Donovan had cruelly joked) with narrow white stripes ( _not_ like a candy cane; Anderson could go right to hell). And Lestrade's commentary on the jumper and John's stature making him look the perfect Christmas elf (really? fucking height jokes?) actually did sting a bit. But none of the input from the Yarders was enough to push him over the top.

What finally did it was Sherlock joining in. He raised a single, carefully arched eyebrow, smirked, and said, "Perhaps you should remove the offending garment, John. It would appear you are too adorable for a crime scene, and it's putting everyone off."

John seethed. He clenched his left hand into a fist, and flared his nostrils...

Several contributing factors lent themselves to John's response. He'd arrived back to Baker Street after a dreadful twelve hour A&E rotation to find Sherlock had used what was left of their food supply for experimentation. The smoldering, dripping mess was left in the center of the table. John had binned the whole thing, decontaminated the table and floor below it, and then grudgingly headed to the shops. He'd only just arrived back at the flat when Sherlock's text arrived.

"You fucking texted and asked me to come here. Said it was urgent. Definitely dangerous."

"And here you are," Sherlock stood to face him, wearing his guarded crime scene face, though something else shined, something kinder maybe (John wasn't completely sure about that), in his piercing eyes. "I didn't expect you to appear quite so," he waved his hand as if trying to summon the correct word. It was all for show. He delivered the knock-out blow. "...spritely."

Definitely not kind, then.

"Sod off," John shoved past Sherlock and turned to storm away from the officers' shocked laughter.

"C'mon mate, we're just having a bit of fun," Donovan called after him.

"I'm not your _mate,_ " John snarled as he turned back to face her. Then he met Sherlock's eyes with a glare. "Call me if you decide to actually solve it, yeah?"

"John-"

Waving Sherlock off with an obscene gesture, John stalked through the swinging doors that separated the front office where the body had been discovered to the shipping warehouse out back. He stomped and fumed, paced and cursed, up and down the maze of industrial shelving units. It didn't take as long as usual for his level-headed, logical side to break through the haze of his anger. It certainly hadn't been Sherlock's most egregious infraction, more an insult to his ego than anything.

John turned to trudge back to the scene with a yawn. He felt dead on his feet from exhaustion, couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, and was suddenly freezing... "The hell?" Tugging the jumper off, glad he'd worn a long-sleeved t-shirt, John realized that somewhere along his angry pacing he'd snagged the damn thing on something, and it was unraveling as he walked. "Problem solved, then," he shivered, dropped the jumper and kicked it for good measure, then turned down the next aisle to head back to the offices.

"Oi!" A shout and the ricochet of a bullet sent John diving behind a forklift.

John didn't need to be a genius to deduce the fact he'd likely stumbled upon their suspect. He pulled his gun out from where he'd tucked it against the small of his back "There's no way the police didn't hear that. Just stay where you are." He stood slowly, keeping his gun trained on the other man.

There was only a split second between the two guns firing. The slight man shooting at John was clearly unaccustomed to the recoil, and the shot went wide. John hit his mark, a shoulder shot. The suspect dropped to the floor and lost his grip on the gun.

Making his way carefully to retrieve the other weapon, John realized too late an accomplice was lurking nearby. He felt a jab in his neck as he stood, and the sudden release of... something... in his system... fuck... not good... bit not... While he still had some wits about him, John drove his elbow hard into his attacker's solar plexus. He managed a knee to the groin and a well placed blow to the other man's head with the butt of the Sig before he staggered to lean against... uhm... yeah...

"John! _John!?_ " Frantic, Sherlock charged around the corner. "Lestrade, ambulance!" He made it just as John pitched forward, and helped him gently to the floor. "Are you injured?" Sherlock did a quick assessment, discreetly tucking John's gun away under his suit coat.

"Drugged..." John lifted his hand to his neck. His movements were sluggish and his words slurred. "Cold..."

"Don't go to sleep, John." Sherlock tucked his great coat around his friend. "We have to figure out..." He scanned the area and found the emptied needle.

"Sh'lock..."

"John?" Sherlock patted John's cheek in an effort to keep his eyes open. "You found the suspects, John. Job well done."

"Hmngh..." John mumbled nonsensically.

"Lestrade!"

"Medics are on their way in now, Sherlock," Lestrade was busy handcuffing the still unconscious accomplice. "Don't suppose we know how John managed that, do we?" He nodded to the suspect with the shoulder wound.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to keeping John awake. "Your unraveled jumper led me right to you... Nope, come on..." He shook John rather forcefully. John gasped and managed to get his eyes partially open. "I suppose you'll expect me to replace it..."

"'S bad..." John mumbled.

"Yes, it was a very impractical choice," Sherlock chuckled. His pats on John's cheek became more forceful. "John... C'mon..."

When John woke several hours later, in hospital, _again,_ it was to a raging headache, a roiling gut, and Sherlock pacing the length of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"John." Sherlock hurried to his side. He launched into an immediate explanation of the resolution of the case, and exactly what John had been drugged with, but it was all lost on John who was simply trying not to be sick. He lost the battle and heaved into the basin Sherlock shoved into his hands at the last moment.

"Ah, hmm." Handing John a damp flannel, Sherlock shifted awkwardly on his feet and held a cup of water to John's lips. "Are you... How do you feel?"

"Terrible. Worst hangover ever." John groaned and leaned back against the bed. He squinted and glanced around the room, his eyes landing on... "Sherlock?"

"I'll get a nurse. You'll need something for the headache and nausea."

"Wait," John caught Sherlock's sleeve. "What..." He pointed.

"Oh." Sherlock actually blushed, managing to look contrite. He retrieved the stack of neatly folded jumpers from the counter. "Ah... There was some feeling of guilt after you..." He huffed. "This is from Lestrade, and this is from Donovan and Anderson jointly." He held up two jumpers, exact replicas of the one that had been unraveled.

John would have snorted, if his head weren't about to implode. He pointed to the third jumper. Light, crisp blue, appeared to be cashmere, gorgeous, obviously above John's own price range. "And that one?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry John, but the other one is just too... It is an affront to jumpers. I refuse to waste money on something so ridiculously impractical..."

"Thank you, Sherlock. It's lovely." John managed a smile and patted Sherlock's arm. "Now go get a nurse, yeah? And hand me the basin."


	2. We Come Bearing Gifts

Prompt: Inappropriate gifts: benefits and drawbacks

* * *

John caught the gaurd's eye as he slammed and locked the holding cell door with a wink and a smirk. "Arse," he mumbled and slumped down onto the single, uncomfortable cot.

"I don't understand!" Pacing the length of the narrow cell, Sherlock tugged briefly at his hair, then shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned to glare at John. "This is your fault."

"My fault?" John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, elaborate. I know you're dying to do so."

"You texted Lestrade!"

"A man was dying, Sherlock."

"You're a doctor," Sherlock held his hands out in frustration.

"I didn't have my kit, did I? No supplies." John crossed his arms over his chest, unwilling to budge on the matter.

"We were in his house. There must have been a first aid kit." Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at John.

"A first aid kit? He'd been stabbed. And we were only in his house because _you_ broke in." John stood to face Sherlock directly.

"We. We broke in, John. In case you hadn't noticed, we're both in this cell."

John huffed. "Well, you picked the lock."

"Minutiae." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"So now what, genius?" John dropped back onto the cot.

Sherlock resumed his pacing. "We won't be here long. Lestrade won't be able to solve it without me."

A few moments of silence passed between them. Sherlock continued his pacing, cataloging the evidence he'd gleaned, while John tried to get comfortable, evaluating his life choices.

"Lestrade was unreasonably angry," John scrubbed his hand down his face.

"Hmm." With his fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock turned to face John and froze. "Oh."

"Oh?" John sat up and squinted at Sherlock. "What 'oh'?" Sherlock dropped his hands and fidgeted with a button. "What 'oh,' Sherlock? What did you do?"

"It's possible Lestrade did not appreciate the Christmas gift we sent him..."

"What Christmas gift? We hadn't decided..." John stood up again, a look of panic rising on his face.

"We talked the other day about..."

"Oh no. Oh shit." John put his hands on his head. "For fuck's sake... That was...We were joking. That wasn't... Oh god." He collapsed back onto the cot and covered his face with his hands.

"You thought it was funny," Sherlock shrugged. "It was... amusing. Lestrade has a sense of humor and a reasonable constitution. I did not, however, account for this overreaction."

"Didn't you?" John shouted. "Oh... dammit." He drew his knees up and curled into a ball.

"Not good?" Sherlock sighed as he sat next to John.

"Not good?" John laughed bitterly. "We are never getting out of here."


	3. Merry Gentlemen

Prompt: Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about

*I took a risk and did not follow the risqué prompt at all... but it did inspire this RDJ Holmes & Jude Law Watson tale (my first attempt). I went less for historical accuracy and more for Guy Ritchie's stylized approach. I hope it works. Trust me?*

* * *

Watson frowned as he checked the address on the hastily scribbled note. Only because he knew Holmes so well, and that the note was dictated in the coded shorthand they had long used for secret missives, did he not think this house of ill-repute to be a trap. Truth be told, he should have realized the nature of his destination when three different handsom drivers refused him.

Folding the note and carefully tucking it into the hidden pocket of his waistcoat, Watson squared his shoulders. " _Coffee house._ Of course." With a wary look of resignation on his face, and a deep gratitude that he'd thought to grab his walking stick with the hidden blade, Watson approached the door and knocked. _Two short raps, pause, three long, pause, one short, pause, open palm slap._ Just as Holmes had indicated.

Or was it _three short, pause, then two..._

Before Watson could retrieve the note, the heavy door swung open. Behind it stood a woman entirely too young for the life he knew she endured. He noted the handkerchief speckled with scarlet clenched tightly in one hand, the hollow of her cheeks not hidden by well applied rouge, and the glassy eyed look of fever.

One needn't be Sherlock Holmes to see the girl would be dead in a month's time.

Watson removed his hat and ducked his head. Her smile was world weary, and without a word she motioned for him to follow her.

They walked past doorways covered by heavy, ornate tapestries that scarcely muffled the sounds of unreciprocated lust and deviance concealed on the other side. His distaste evident on his face, Watson kept his gaze forward.

She led him past the gambling tables, and his eyes did wander briefly to the men raucously casting lots. When his hostess winked up at him, Watson cleared his throat and motioned for her to lead on.

They entered a large hall, overwhelmingly gaudy in its excessive opulence. The chandeliers and ornamentation mimicked those of Gothic design. There was a stage at the center, set with an extravagant scene. Tables set with garish elegance crowded the room, and every seat was occupied.

Save for one table, the nearest to the entrance. It was set for two, and stood empty. His hostess ushered Watson to it, and as he sat two gin and tonics were placed neatly in front of him. "Oh, no, I'm certain..." Watson's voice trailed off as music began and the cast of scandalously clad women took the stage.

Their production was an extravaganza to be certain. A bawdy burlesque lampooning the very same morality plays he'd seen school children reenact for Christmas mass just hours before. And there, in the center of it all... Watson required a large swallow of his cocktail before he would allow himself to accept what he saw...

Holmes. Dressed as a courtesan in daring purple, an obvious false hairpiece secured to his head, and a fluttering fan before his face. His falsetto was... impressive. His grace in the costume alarming. Watson finished his drink and was glad for the second.

When the scene was finished, the women in their elaborate gowns made their way down to flirt and tease. Watson lost sight of Holmes for only a moment when a feather light, though decidedly masculine, touch brushed across his nape.

"It would appear the stage has suffered a great loss," Watson raised his glass to Holmes. "And all those years wasted, rotting in the filth of your rooms. Pity."

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players,*" Holmes executed a perfectly demure curtsy.

"And one man in his time plays many parts.* Even, on occasion, when he has the wrong parts." Watson nodded once to his friend's costume. "Does this particular disguise have a stage name?"

"Indeed," Holmes grinned. "You may call me Merry."

"Mary?" Narrowing his eyes, Watson growled. "Crass, and... And..."

"Not Mary, Merry. As in, God rest you merry, gentlemen," Holmes quirked an eyebrow up and cast a cocky glance around the room.

"You are... unstable." Watson shook his head. "Unwell at the very least. I certainly hope you haven't merrily rested with any of these... gentlemen."

The music started up once more, calling the performers back to the stage. "Finish your drink," Holmes urged.

"I'm sorry?" Watson leaned forward.

"Your drink. Finish it," Holmes hissed, casting an anxious look about.

"What has you on edge, with exception to the obvious?"

"Damn it, Watson. You're going to need it for what comes next. Just listen to me for once."

"Next? Why?" Watson nearly choked on his drink as Holmes held it to his lips and forced him to drink. "Damn you, Holmes!" Watson sputtered, brushing the spilled drink from his best tweed.

"You'll thank me momentarily," Holmes grinned deviously as he gathered his skirts up in a most ungentlemanly... ah, unladilike... fashion, revealing his stockings and garters, and sat in Watson's lap so that they were nearly chest to chest.

Watson remained stoic and still in his shock. Holmes waved another drink over and pressed it into his hand. "I... What..."

"A case. You sit. I'll do all the work." Holmes ran his hands up and down Watson's arms.

"Like bloody hell," Watson swallowed down his drink, stronger than the last two, and moved to shove Holmes away.

"Wait!" Holmes whispered, leaning near enough for his lips to almost touch Watson's ear. "It'll all be settled in a matter of moments. My suspect will arrive soon." Watson glared at him. " _Soon._ You'll be home in time for Christmas pudding with Mary."

"Mary!" Watson groaned. "How? How do I let you... I can't go back to her smelling of drink and with... with your rouge on my collar."

"I shall accompany you. Explain all." Holmes shrugged.

"Yes. You will." Watson jabbed Holmes in the chest with his finger. It was only then he truly took in Holmes' appearance. His shoulders were bare because of the cut of his dress. He'd done nothing to conceal the hair on his chest, nor the three day's growth on his face. "When was the last time you shaved? Or bathed for that matter?" Watson actually chuckled.

Keeping up the act, Holmes shifted from caressing Watson to running his fingers through his hair. He shrugged. "Unimportant. This club caters to every vice you can imagine. Take you for instance. I observe your rapid breath and dilated pupils. You are not aroused by the women here, you are happily married, disgustingly so, and faithful to a fault. You are definitely not aroused by my proximity..." Holmes paused and leaned in, staring deeply into Watson's eyes.

"Definitely not," Watson muttered through clenched teeth.

Holmes cleared his throat. "What that reveals is that you are uncomfortable here."

"Obviously."

"So uncomfortable, in fact, that when the young lady showed you in, you diagnosed her, but failed to notice the color of her dress, her auburn hair, the arresting green of her eyes, or the scarlet birthmark on her shoulder."

"The missing countess!" Watson gasped, glancing frantically around the room. Holmes stilled him, placing a hand on either side of his face.

"Mary is fortunate to have you, with your strong morals and lack of addiction."

"Holmes..."

"With just the one exception. Every time someone wins at the tables, you glance over there. Thrice you've felt your pocket for your wallet." Holmes held Watson's wallet up. When Watson reached for it, Holmes shoved it down the front of his dress. "You'll thank me later."

Watson swatted Holmes' hands away. "Enough. Who are we looking for?"

"He's entering now," Holmes leaned in and embraced Watson, pressing himself close. "Excellent, you've brought your revolver."

"Holmes..." Watson snarled.

"Prepare your blade, old man." Holmes leaned back, with Watson's revolver in hand.

"How?" Brows furrowed, Watson huffed in frustration.

With cunning eyes, Holmes tracked the movement of the criminal. He tugged up a sagging stocking, checked that his hair was secure, then gathered his skirts in one hand. "Come, friend Watson. The curtain rings up for the last act.**"

* * *

*"As You Like It," William Shakespeare, Act II, Scene ii

**"The Mystery of the Second Stain," Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


	4. The Plural of Hippopotamus

**A/N**

For this chapter, we're AU: post the fall. Mary never happened and John never left Baker Street. And squinty Molstrade. Also, the rule of this prompt challenge is that there are no rules. So, since I'm so far behind and this idea free-fell into something full-fic length, I'm fulfilling multiple prompts.

#4. Yes, _, there is a Santa Claus

#8. The Grinch, Scrooge, and Other Holiday Enemies You Might Currently Be Acting Like

#10. No, THIS is the worst holiday song of all time

#31. I want to make new traditions with you and we can even wear clothes for some of them

* * *

"Sherlock?... _Sherlock..._ "

The nagging repetition of his name hadn't been worth looking away from results he'd been waiting all day for. But then Molly had the audacity to touch him. Just a gentle shake of his shoulder. Still...

"Molly, what? For god's sake, what?" He snapped, standing to his full height.

"Sorry," she ducked her head, then sighed resolutely and looked him in the eye. She was already wearing her coat, and had a large bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm off, then," she stated bluntly and turned away. "You can stay, but Tompkins is in next."

Sherlock checked his watch. "It's... You're leaving early?" He folded the pages in his hand and carefully tucked them into his inner pocket. He considered cleaning up his mess, but... He really could not tolerate Tompkins, so he left it.

"It's Christmas Eve," Molly smiled brightly and waited for him to button his greatcoat.

"What does that have to do with... anything?" He frowned as Molly kept pace with him exiting the hospital.

Molly shrugged. "Well, _I_ have plans, you old Grinch." She winked at him and held her hand out for a cab. Sherlock stared at her, confusion etched on his face, as she slid into the car and called out, "Wanna share?"

Ducking down, Sherlock leaned into the car. "You don't go the same way I do." He knew exactly how imbecilic he sounded as he said it, and groaned internally.

"Well, maybe I do today." Her continued smile was maddening as she patted the seat next to her and told the cabbie, "221 Baker Street, please."

With a grimace, Sherlock climbed into the cab. He rode in silence, his fingers steepled under his chin, ignoring Molly's dull rambling as she carried on about... something. Her clothing was as unremarkable as usual, corduroy trousers and a jumper featuring a snowman rather than a kitten... No, wait. It had both. Not a date, then. The large bag was difficult to deduce, but he assumed it contained holiday gifts of some sort. A party, maybe? A sinking feeling settled in Sherlock's gut. He was startled from his contemplation when the cabbie announced their destination.

An annoying John-like voice in his head reminded Sherlock to reimburse Molly for his leg of the drive. He silently reached for his wallet, but was stunned to see Molly pay the driver, with a very generous tip, and open the door on her side. She heaved her bag out after her and laughed. "Well, come on."

Scrambling out from the car, Sherlock stumbled over the kerb as he glanced up at the windows of the flat. He could hear Christmas music. He frowned and began constructing a scathing tirade. How dare John... Sherlock huffed as he realized Molly was waiting patiently for him by the door.

The door with the brass knocker that had been straightened to its correct position. Oh hell. " _Mycroft?_ He invited my brother?"

Molly's smile wavered for the first time. "Sherlock..."

Not waiting for Molly to finish, Sherlock unlocked the door and charged up the stairs to the flat. "John! What is the meaning of-" He nearly collided with someone.

"Oh, Sherlock, hey. I was just dropping off the first aid supplies," the woman, she was familiar, explained. One of John's... That female doctor. Sherlock couldn't recall her name, not that it mattered. She was leaving after all. He stepped aside to let her pass.

"Sarah!" Molly exclaimed from the landing. "Going already?"

"Dinner with the in-laws. You know," Sarah shrugged. She and Molly hugged. "Happy Christmas!" She called over her shoulder and disappeared down the stairs.

"Sherlock, didn't expect you so soon. Got your results already?" John smiled up at him and pressed a mug of tea into his hands. He seemed surprised, but not dismayed, by Sherlock's appearance. "Would you move so Molly can come in? Git." He shook his head, nudged Sherlock out of the way, then pulled Molly into the flat.

"So glad you could make it," John kissed her on the cheek, then took the big bag from her and placed it on the floor so he could help her off with her coat.

"Wouldn't miss it," Molly's smile looked a bit sad as she hugged him. Sherlock pursed his lips and waited for the sentimental displays to pass. If he stayed very still, maybe they would forget he was there and he wouldn't end up hugged as well.

"Mrs. Hudson and Greg are all set up in the kitchen. There's tea on, and punch, and Mrs. Hudson made every sweet thing you can imagine." John ushered her into the kitchen, leaving the mysterious bag in there too. There was a burst of laughter and joyous chatter, and Sherlock looked on, perplexed.

"You could join us," John interrupted his contemplation. "Take off your coat, at least."

"Join you in... what, exactly?" Sherlock handed John his tea so he could shrug out of his greatcoat. "And why was Mycroft here?" He fixed John with an accusatory glare.

"Sherlock, I told you about this."

"You couldn't have. I am certain I would have remembered you telling me of a party, simply so I could stay as far away as possible." He snatched his tea back from John.

"Not a party."

Sherlock scoffed. "There are fairy lights and tinsel covering every bit of this flat..."

"They aren't!" John laughed. "The mantle and the windows hardly constitute the whole flat."

"Holiday themed music. Dreadful." Sherlock motioned to the stack of Christmas albums on the table. "There are an abundance of people, baked goods, and a general feeling of seasonal cheer."

"And a partridge in a pear tree," John winked and chuckled.

" _What_?"

"A joke, Sherlock." John chewed on his lower lip and then sighed. "You must have deleted it. I know better than to talk to you when you're mid-experiment." He pushed Sherlock out to the landing and made sure the door to the kitchen was closed.

"Look Sherlock," John was completely still, assuming parade rest, and stared down at the floor. "The first Christmas after you..." To Sherlock's surprise (dismay?) John's shoulders drooped. "Was hard. It was really hard."

Oh. Sherlock's humbug attitude deflated immediately. He'd only been home and made his survival known to John a few months prior. John making ridiculous excuses for attempting to force him to celebrate would have been preferable to discussing his time away. They'd largely avoided the subject after the first few days, and he wondered if dredging up the past was really appropriate with a kitchen full of guests.

"John..."

"I didn't tell you this part. Maybe you would've remembered if I had." John sniffed once and looked up at him with a wistful smile. "That first Christmas, I was lost. Just, a mess. I had gone out, I don't remember why, and ended up wandering down streets we'd worked cases on. I remember it got very late, and I happened upon one of the smaller boys from your homeless network. God, he was so sick. He took me back to the other boys, and three others were worse off. I did everything I could. Two of them didn't make it through that night..." John's voice broke and he exhaled slowly.

"Damn," Sherlock felt ill.

"It was bad for days. I kept going back. It was something to do, you know? Felt useful again," John shrugged. "Felt like you were..." He cleared his throat. "Got the boys as well as I could with limited supplies, managed to gather a few secondhand blankets, and Mrs. Hudson sent some food. I managed to keep tabs on most of them. When the second Christmas came around, Greg and Molly helped me gather a few things, and we took it all out there in the middle of the night. Most of the smallest boys were asleep, and the older boys agreed to play along."

"Play along?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him in curiosity.

"That Father Christmas had paid a visit."

"Father Christmas." Incredulous, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Those children may be lacking formal education, but most of them are intelligent enough to know the difference between truth and the lies of fairy stories."

"I suppose," John exhaled deeply. "But everyone needs something to believe in, Sherlock." He smiled warmly at his friend. "You can join us this year if you'd like. You don't have to. But I'd like it if you did."

Sherlock scrunched his face. "I'm home now, John."

"It was never just a coping mechanism 'til you came back, Sherlock. Well, maybe the first year. But I didn't know you were coming back, did I?" John spoke softly and his words held no reproach as he maintained steady eye contact. "And now, it's... more. This is important. I don't expect you to understand, but you might if you gave it a try. I'll be in the kitchen with the others if you want to help." John stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock heard Lestrade make a muffled comment and there was more laughter. He narrowed his eyes and stared into his cooling tea. Life at Baker Street was slowly but surely finding its way back to some semblance of what it had been before he'd left. There were days things seemed almost _normal._ In that normalcy remained the fact that John Watson was a constant source of what was most unexpected. Except, Sherlock wasn't surprised by this new tradition of John's, not really. Of course the most caring, compassionate, generous man he knew would go out his way to take care of those who were overlooked and abandoned, unloved and unable to repay his kindness. It's what he'd done for Sherlock after all.

Almost timidly, Sherlock entered the flat through the sitting room door, and stood silently observing the festivities in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson noticed him first, replaced his cold mug with a warm one and a mince pie, and pulled him deeper into the room.

"Damn. Didn't think John would actually convince you to help." Greg rolled his eyes, pulled a few bills from his wallet and tossed them at John.

"You placed _bets_ on whether or not I'd help?" Sherlock feigned injury, though his mouth quirked up a bit at the corner.

"I always believe in you, Sherlock," John patted his shoulder as the others all groaned. "Here," he handed Sherlock an oversized red stocking. "There's a list on the front of what goes in that one."

"So, what do I do?"

"You read the list, and you fill the stocking," Molly giggled. "You can't mess it up."

"I don't know..."

"Stop over thinking it." John handed him the items on the list, and Sherlock dropped them in haphazardly. "Careful! You'll bruise the apple. And the biscuits go on top or they'll get crushed."

"John, maybe you should..."

John handed him a bundle of socks. "Nonsense, Sherlock. It's common sense." Greg found that comment hilarious, and Sherlock pouted.

"Oh, the music's stopped." Molly glanced into the sitting room. "I'll just..."

"No, let me. _Please._ " Sherlock stuffed the lumpy stocking into John's hands and disappeared from the kitchen.

"He's never coming back," Greg laughed. "Give me my money."

"Don't count him out yet," John smiled as he heard the familiar snap of Sherlock's violin case.

What followed was an hour of Sherlock playing every holiday song he knew (and a few other pieces, which was just fine with his audience) while Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John stuffed stockings full of hats and gloves, apples and candy, and other useful, necessary items. Some stockings got a little first-aid kit, some got a handy little all-purpose tool, and yet others got a torch with extra batteries - each item lending itself to self-sufficiency, but encouraging the boys to stick together and pool their resources. _Brilliant John._

When the stockings were stuffed and loaded into rucksacks, they packaged up most of the sweets and packed them along with a few footballs and other toys (courtesy of Mycroft) into Molly's large bag (mystery solved: warm jumpers). Another large bag, full of blankets, was retrieved from John's room.

Mrs. Hudson excused herself after another cup of punch. "But just a little, dear. Early morning... Maybe a _bit_ more than that. Going to see my sister, you know." She hugged them all goodnight. Even Sherlock graciously (only rolling his eyes a little) received an affectionate peck on the cheek.

They ordered Chinese takeaway, and ate it on the floor in front of the fireplace with the armchairs pushed out of the way. All the lamps were off, the soft glow of the fairy lights and the crackling fire their only illumination. A soppy black and white holiday film droned on the telly. Shared memories of Christmases past devolved into tales of the bizarre and grotesque. Considering the four of them, there wasn't much they hadn't seen, especially at the holidays; Greg in his early days on patrol and years in homicide, Molly working in the morgue, John with his hospital training and years at war, and Sherlock simply being Sherlock.

"Brilliant dinner conversation," Greg wiped away the last of the laughter tears and stood.

"Quite illuminating, actually," Sherlock leaned back against his chair, wondering at the sense of contentment he felt.

"John, I can't believe..." Molly giggled.

"That's classified, yeah? You definitely can't tell anyone," John winked and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. A midnight Christmas mass came on the telly. With a stretch and a groan, John pushed himself up off the floor and extended his hand to Molly. "Shall we?"

"We shall," she giggled, and they both offered to help Sherlock up.

"Will you come?" John looked so hopeful and happy, and something deep in Sherlock's chest _ached_ with it. He found he desperately did not want to disappoint this man, his dearest friend.

"I... Yes. Of course." Exhaling deeply, Sherlock nodded and managed a small, genuine smile.

"You may want to wear something warmer than that suit," Greg finished winding his scarf around his neck and heaved one of the rucksacks over his shoulder. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged into his greatcoat. "I tried to warn you," Greg shook his head and started out the door. Molly, with her now over-full bag and a thermos - _when had she filled a thermos?_ \- followed him downstairs.

"It's going to be frigid out there. You sure..." John attempted to swing the remaining rucksack onto his shoulders, but a twinge in his left caused his breath to catch. Sherlock took it from him and hooked it over one shoulder.

"Perhaps you should be more concerned with the cold. Your shoulder has been aching for days," he stated matter-of-factly, and picked up the bag of blankets.

"Give me that," with an indignant huff, John reached for the bag, but Sherlock moved past him too quickly.

"Don't forget your scarf, John." Sherlock's smile was smug as he hurried down the steps, John close behind.

"Git," John chuckled.

"Is Graham driving us in his car?"

John laughed. "No, _Greg_ is not driving his car. They know a copper when they see one. It would spook them for sure."

"Not a cab at this hour?"

"Nope," it was John's turn to look smug as he nodded his head to Greg and Molly loading their bags into a car across the street.

"You hired an estate car?" Sherlock scrunched his face in disgust.

"No," shook his head innocently, locking the door behind them. "Mycroft did." He snorted when Sherlock's face went blank and he lost a step or two.

"What foul, detestable thing did you have to agree to for this favor?" Sherlock grumbled. He heaved his bags into the car and slammed the boot shut.

"Nothing!" John rolled his eyes. "He offered, I accepted. Easier this way. And warmer." He smiled as he watched Sherlock reach for the front passenger door then quickly scramble to the back when he realized John was also climbing into the back. "Greg drives."

"I can drive," Sherlock stated dryly.

"No one needs to experience that," Greg winked at Molly who giggled and fussed with the radio.

"I'm a very skilled driver. Tell them, John."

"Sherlock is a very skilled driver," John repeated almost mechanically, though he laughed at the end.

"I drove us out to Dartmoor."

"True. And it was not your driving that nearly killed us." John agreed.

"That was the giant, blood-thirsty, demon hound," Greg supplied, eager to help.

"And the hallucinogens."

"The mad scientists."

"Angry military men."

"Those gents who ran that inn."

"Oh, and the mine field..."

"Are you two _quite_ finished?" Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sherlock," John chuckled, "We're only listing things that are worse than your driving."

"Yeah, mate. It's not our fault all those things happened during one case," Greg winked at Sherlock in the mirror. "Damn, that was a lot of crazy." John snorted, and Sherlock actually hummed in agreement.

"I am a good driver," Sherlock mumbled as he watched the city pass. Molly giggled first, and soon they were laughing again.

John caught Sherlock's eye and raised an eyebrow in silent question, a small lopsided smile tugged at his lips. _Okay?_ Sherlock let the corners of his mouth quirk up and he nodded once in response, before launching into a tirade about the bastardization of perfectly good musical masterpieces into what now passed as acceptable sounds of the holiday.

"...And could someone _please_ explain to that poor delusional child that the plural of hippopotamus is hippopotami, and that they are quite hostile to humans?"

Molly ignored him, turned the volume of the radio up and sang along a bit louder. Greg, and then John, joined in, loud and obnoxious. Sherlock sighed, but before long, John caught him humming along with Elvis. He just grinned and joined Greg doing terrible falsetto to back Molly singing lead. They crooned and warbled, and occasionally actually sang, the entire drive. Sherlock scoffed and made remarks with no real heat behind them.

He once again found himself astounded - Sherlock was enjoying this, sitting next to John, being ridiculous with his friends (friend _s_ plural, a truly unexpected development), and having... fun. Sherlock blinked and managed a genuine smile when Molly glanced over her shoulder at him.

Greg parked the car and turned to face them and grinned "We're here. Everyone be quiet, and we follow John's lead." To his surprise, Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

They gathered their supplies, Sherlock allowing John to carry the rucksack (though only over his right shoulder), and they converged stealthily on the dank, condemned shell of a building the children called home. An entire wall had collapsed, but the three remaining walls and partial roof served as somewhat of a shelter from the elements.

Two older boys were up, and appeared to be keeping watch over a small fire. They eyed Greg suspiciously, but ducked their heads to Molly. "Doc, Shezza..." the older of the two nodded.

"All accounted for?" John whispered. The two boys nodded. "Anyone sick? Injured?" The oldest boy shook his head, but the other boy glared.

"Show me," John commanded. The boy rolled up his sleeve and revealed an angry looking burn. "This was an accident?" The young man nodded. John turned to the others. "Go ahead and get started. I'll see to this." He started cleaning the burn and was relieved to see it wasn't as bad as it looked, and that it was not infected.

Sherlock recognized most of the boys and passed out the stockings as Greg and Molly handled the blankets and jumpers. John was checking over two brothers who had been the prior week, but seemed to be better, when the others finished putting the remaining gifts and sweets under the poor excuse for a Christmas tree (a few bits of browning shrubbery tied together with twine) the boys had propped up in the center of the room.

"You'll make sure they take these?" John pressed a small bundle into the oldest boy's hand. He nodded solemnly. "Good man." The boy, for all his posturing, looked suddenly very young and bashful. "And I meant it when I said you send someone for me, any time, yeah?" The boy nodded again. "Right," John stuck out his hand. The boy considered it, but threw his arms around John's neck instead.

"Thanks Doc," he sniffed and pulled away quickly.

"'Ta." The other boy ducked his head and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.

"Happy Christmas boys. There's something extra in your stockings for keeping the secret," John winked and led the others back out to the street. He led them to a neighboring building, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Car's back there."

"This is the best part," Molly smiled conspiratorially and wrapped her arm through his.

They made their way through a grimy alleyway to a decrepit old fire escape. Sherlock watched in horror as John, followed by Greg, made his way up the creaking and groaning death trap. "And you call me and idiot?" He hissed up at his flatmate. John laughed and shrugged.

"C'mon. You don't wanna miss the view."

Molly patted Sherlock's arm, then headed up the fire escape. "Idiots. All of you," Sherlock grumbled as he made his way carefully up to the roof. "It's freezing up here."

"I warned you," Greg chuckled and tossed him a spare blanket. "Besides, we've got coffee." Molly pulled out the thermos and a bundle of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits.

Glancing around, Sherlock realized John was sitting on the ledge of the roof, his legs dangling, facing the direction they'd just come walked from. "John, what are we doing now?"

"Shhh. Just listen. And watch." He reached up and tugged Sherlock's hand until he sat beside him. Sherlock shook the blanket out so he could wrap it around both of them. "'Ta," John smiled and bumped their shoulders together.

"Cozy." Greg winked and handed them coffee.

"Sod off," John rolled his eyes. Molly sat down next to John, and Greg sat next to her, tucking them both into one blanket as well. John hummed at that and Greg reached around Molly to punch him in the arm.

"Hush," Sherlock huffed. "We're watching and listening." He leaned a bit closer against John, who huffed a laugh.

"That we are."

They sat for what seemed an age, shivering, sipping tepid coffee and eating too many sweets. It was bitterly cold and the sky had transitioned to the light grey of early dawn. Greg had started telling another wildly gruesome tale of a Christmas past when there was a shout from below.

"What's happening?" Sherlock leaned over in an attempt to see, and John pulled him back.

"Git. It's the boys. They're waking up." A few excited voices drifted up to them, and soon more joined in. Someone stoked the small fire to make it a little brighter, and the sun was trying to break through the bleak early morning in earnest.

With more light, they could see the boys waking the others. Shouts and whoops could be heard. At some point a few of the boys organized a rough game of football, and the sweets were divided up evenly.

Sherlock realized he wasn't cold anymore. Quite the contrary. The warmth in his chest was unlike anything he'd ever felt. "John," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"It's... Beautiful."

"Yeah." John sniffed, and Sherlock realized there were tears in his eyes.

"John, are you crying?"

"You've no room to talk," John sniffed again and wiped his eyes with the blanket.

"What? Oh." Sherlock was crying too. Sherlock didn't cry. He just... "It's just the cold. I'm not-"

"Right."

Sherlock huffed and blinked a few times. He glanced around John to see Greg and Molly both asleep, leaning on each other. "They're missing it."

"Long night," John stretched but then settled back down next to him. "There's always next year."

Next year. "Really?"

"Yeah, Sherlock. I told you..."

"Can I? I want to help again."

"Yeah. Yes, of course," John grinned.

"Good," Sherlock nodded. "Do you think, maybe, the boys would like a real tree? A vendor owes me a favor... It wouldn't have to be a very big one. We could pre-decorate it... Strap it to the top of the car..."

"Sherlock," John chuckled. "That's brilliant. Yes, of course we can get them a tree. I never even thought about it."

"Well, I am a genius."

"You are. And modest." John rolled his eyes. Sherlock chuckled. "Now help me up. I think my shoulder is literally frozen through."

Sherlock hummed, and neither one actually moved as they watched the boys play a little while longer.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"I should thank you, John. This experience is the best gift I've ever received."

"Hmm, good. I can return the one I have back at the flat." John laughed at Sherlock's surprised expression. "I'm just joking!"

"You can't!"

"Well, yes I can."

"No, I mean really, you can't."

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock. You found it didn't you?" John sighed. "Already used it and put it back in the box."

"Ah... The box has a few carefully selected stones in it. It's a beautiful set of balances, by the way."

"Antique." John scrubbed his hand down his face. "Expensive."

"Lovely. The previous owner kept them very well maintained." Sherlock avoided meeting his eyes.

"Where are they now, Sherlock?"

"An antiques dealer I know, saved his wife and his dog - he was surprisingly attached to the dog-"

"Sherlock," John huffed.

"Right. He owes me. Knows a guy who restores and repairs..."

John shook his head. "Never mind. I don't actually want to know what happened. Happy Christmas, idiot."

"Happy Christmas, John."


	5. Holiday Cheer and Hacktivists

***A/N***

PROMPT: 17. I'm told it is the season for good will toward men so I am going to try to not hate you.

PROMPT: 19. I have always hated the holidays but you love them and I love you, so… damn it.

For this installment, I'm venturing for the first time into the realm of the show Elementary. I know, I know. But I actually really like it, so I submit, for your consideration, Sherlock and Joan...

* * *

"You never did tell me why we're doing this." Joan carefully handed the violin case out, then accepted Sherlock's help out of the cab. She smoothed the front of her dress, retrieved her bag from the floor of the cab, and stumbled when the excessive fabric of her bustle caught on the car door. Sherlock's arm went around the small of her back to offer support and she caught herself with one hand on his bicep. The ridiculous Leghorn bonnet, with its feathers and _holly,_ slid down over her forehead. She had to tilt her head back to peer out from under it in order to see Sherlock's amused half smile.

"Are you quite all right, Watson? I did advise you to practice wearing the dress before we embarked on this endeavor."

With a frustrated huff, Joan pushed Sherlock away and handed him her bag. "I wore the costume," she rolled her eyes and used a shop window as a mirror while she adjusted her hat and tugged at the fitted jacket that seemed tailor made for her. A dark forest green with black satin accents, it was a beautiful dress, and she had to admit it suited her well. The bodice accentuated... everything. The skirt was long, and narrower than she'd expected for a Victorian Era gown, a detail she appreciated immensely, with the exception of the bustle in the back. Even the boots, with the slight heel and the dozens of buttons - why did the whole get-up have so many damn buttons - were a perfect fit.

"These are not costumes," Sherlock frowned. "These are on loan from the historical society. Did you honestly think I would settle for some cheap, community theatre, Dickensian counterfeits?"

Placing her hands on her hips, Joan turned to face him. "Fine. I did practice wearing the historically accurate reproduction." She fussed with the bustle as she looked over her shoulder into her window reflection, only noticing the attractive man watching her intently from inside the shop after he dropped his coffee in his lap. She glared at him and ceased her fluffing.

"You misunderstand," handing Joan her bag, Sherlock held out his elbow. Joan shook her head, huffed a laugh and wrapped her gloved hand around his arm. "These are not reproductions. These are samples of Victorian tailoring, preserved carefully and lovingly from Victoria's Era. I'm sure the curator would appreciate your utmost care with the garments."

"Damn it, Sherlock," Joan forced him to stop. "You mean these clothes are antiques?"

"Centuries old," he nodded impatiently and urged her to keep walking.

"You could have mentioned that little detail."

"Would it have made convincing you to come along any easier?"

"I would have said no more adamantly."

Sherlock hummed and continued walking, seemingly unaware of the looks they were receiving and the way the surprised crowds of people stepped out of their way. He stopped abruptly, removed Joan's hand from his arm, and turned in a slow circle. "Yes, this will do."

"This will do for what, Sherlock? Why are we here? It's freezing out here, and..."

"You should have brought along the muff," Sherlock shrugged and crouched down, gingerly placing his violin case on the sidewalk and snapping it open.

"You mean the nineteenth century mink muff that is probably worth more than the brownstone and all our crap inside it?" Exasperated, Joan watched the crowds hustling warily around them.

"Not probably. Most definitely." He stood and tucked the violin under his chin with a sniff. Despite his stoic demeanor, he cut quite the dashing figure in his coal colored trousers and knee length frock coat. His waistcoat and cravat were the same green as Joan's dress, a beautiful contrast to the dove shirt underneath, and he wore a burgundy colored scarf. A black silk top hat with burgundy accent completed the look. "And my belongings are not _crap._ "

" _Why_ are we here, Sherlock?"

"You were in need of some holiday cheer, Watson." Sherlock set about tuning his violin.

"Excuse me?" She stepped directly into his line of sight. "Explain yourself."

"Of the two of us, historically, you have been the one to extend any sort of _good will_ toward our fellow man. But after your recent falling out with your brother..."

"You know about that?"

Sherlock sighed and chose not to dignify the question with a response. "And the fact that your last two attempts to find a suitable mate have ended most miserably..."

" _Sherlock,_ " Joan hissed.

"You have been distracted, Watson. You have not been enjoying the season as you normally would, and your distraction is hindering our work. Others have noticed as well."

"Did Captain Gregson say something?" The anger on her face softened into a more wistful look.

"Detective Bell called. He seemed... concerned."

"It's not the break-up, or my brother." Joan sighed. "It was that case. With the..."

Sherlock hummed in understanding and lowered his violin. "It was gruesome. Quite... unsettling. Even for me. But you were a surgeon, and we've seen worse..."

"It wasn't the violent nature of the crime. It was..."

"The inhuman nature of the suspect?"

Joan closed her eyes and nodded. "People are terrible. How can humans be so evil?"

"Not all people are," Sherlock kept his tone low and looked uncertainly at his hand for a moment before placing it gently on Joan's arm. "You are decidedly not terrible. Quite the opposite. I, on the other hand..." He scrunched his face in contemplation. "When you are not yourself, I find it unbearable. I cannot be the things you are, compassionate and understanding of the idiosyncrasies of others. I may try." Joan laughed at that, and Sherlock smiled despite himself. "But I fail. We work better when we work together. I am better when you are... you."

"Sherlock Holmes, if I didn't know better, I would think, in your ridiculous way, you were trying to cheer me up." She smiled up at him.

"Yes, well, don't get used to it." He raised the violin and and glanced carefully around. Joan followed his glances, and noticed three different people badly disguised as tourists, with cell phones at the ready.

"But of course I _do_ know better, don't I? God, Sherlock," she sighed and put her hands on her hips once more. "This is an Everyone thing, isn't it?"

"I owed them for that bank case." He shrugged and pulled the bow lightly across the strings.

"So your merry band of hacktivists demanded one of their ridiculous payments, and you thought you'd include me in the humiliation?"

"Everyone is an organization that belongs to the people of the world. They do not belong to me. Hence, demanding recompense."

"Yes, I've seen your other payments - Your rendition of "Let it Go" in the dress is a personal favorite - but you've never dragged me into it!" Joan stomped her foot.

Launching into a heart-rending rendition of "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If I convinced you to join me, they promised the next two favors would be free." He winced, waiting for the fallout, willing Joan not to take her rage out on his violin.

Brows furrowed, Joan considered the explanation. "You should have asked for three."

Sherlock missed a beat and hit a wrong note. "Three," he repeated incredulously.

"I'm worth three. At least," she shrugged.

"I..." Sherlock continued playing with no further missteps. "You aren't..."

"I won't murder you in public, no. Especially not out in the middle of Times Square on Christmas Eve." Joan opened her bag and pulled out a few bundles of neatly wrapped and decorated sugar cookies.

"That is very generous of you," Sherlock nodded slightly as he transitioned into a lively version of "Adeste Fideles."

"Don't think this is settled though," Joan smiled warmly at an elderly woman and offered her a bundle of the cookies. A few people dropped money in Sherlock's case and Joan thanked them with the baked goods. "You owe me."

"I would expect no less."

"So, I spotted three of them recording," Joan mumbled as she retrieved more sweets.

"Four, actually. Do you see what I mean? You're distracted."

Joan opened her mouth to retort, but Sherlock managed a genuine smile. She huffed and offered a cranky businessman a candy cane. "So what do you think they will do with the video?"

"It isn't worth my time to attempt to-" Sherlock was cut short by a cheer from the crowd. He ended the song and glanced around. "Watson..."

"Keep playing, Sherlock!" Joan laughed and pointed up. Over half the video feeds overlooking Times Square were trained on Sherlock and Joan. "Everyone strikes again! Play!" She shouted gleefully over the noise.

"I hate the holidays!" He called back to her even as he began playing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

"Nobody cares, Sherlock!" Joan laughed again as she continued to pass out the sweets Sherlock had spent the entire day before preparing.

"Merry Christmas, Watson." He whispered quietly to himself with a smile.


End file.
